


The Thirteen Curves

by Aesops_Corpse



Category: No Fandom
Genre: Cliffhangers, Gen, Ghosts, Urban Legends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:47:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23247253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aesops_Corpse/pseuds/Aesops_Corpse
Summary: This strange tale is inspired by ghost stories and an actual place and road in the wooded county I grew up in. This road winds down an eerie ravine in the woods and there are at least thirteen steep curves. Over the years, many car accidents occurred on this road. People claimed to see ghosts. There are tales of a wedding couple that crashed and died here and can still be seen wandering the road. There is a tale of a murderous ghost with a hook. I wrote this as well as other unrelated cliffhangers for my ESL college students in China. It was Halloween, so each of the cliffhangers are strange tales. I am sharing them with Archives of Our Own.
Kudos: 1





	The Thirteen Curves

It was a dark and foggy autumn night. Walter Whitman was driving through a thick forest he did not know. He was alone. He was tired. Awhile back a twisted wooden sign, hewn from an old fence post and half a log with gnarled roots and twisting branches read 13 curves. The serpentine road forced him to drive slowly and with great care. Thirteen curves he said under his breath. Hmm, that’s unusual—kind of fatalistic, he thought. How fun! He decided to count the twists and turns. Soon a crooked yellow sign emerged out of the mist on the side of the road. Caution, it said in reflective paint, an S-curve underneath. He heeded its advice. One, two…he counted; the mist crawled over his car, slowly, eerily. It seemed to caress it, flowing like a long silk wedding gown. Three…There was a chill in the air so he rolled up the window, and switched on his heater and the defroster. It coughed up some dust and an old fug—he hadn’t used it since last winter. It howled and rattled. The car was a classic, an old model station wagon built in the late seventies, with tan vinyl seats and big roll-down windows. Some things didn’t work right, like the radio which never received more than gibberish and static.

The road winded on its way through the cold fog. There were several more signs, the same yellow caution signs that floated in and out of the velvet mist. Several times he nearly drove off of the road, a grim prospect, as the forest seemed to grow up out of a deep chasm. His headlights shimmered on yet another sign that appeared. He had to squint to make it out. Road closed, it said in that stenciled black ink; but underneath, sprayed in dripping, ghostly white paint it said—Go Back. What was this, he thought? Kids, he muttered to himself. Still, it did say road closed; but the words were worn, the sign weathered and dented—it must have been very old. It didn’t appear as though anyone came this way very often. 

His car crawled through the mist. How many curves was that? Nine, ten…? He shivered, a chill in his spine. Now Walter, he said to himself, don’t let this spooky hollow shake you—it’s late, you’re tired, the mist is a bit ominous, but it’s nothing. ‘Superstition is for the faithful!’ he said aloud. Nevertheless, the sooner you get off this road, the better. Eleven…a rickety sign appeared that read No Way Out, and scrawled in bleeding white paint—Help. What the—! He muttered. Now this was getting creepy. He had goose bumps on his skin. Everything felt very close, very real- too real. The mist seemed to live. His breath caught in his throat. It was very cold. Was this real? Was it a prank? Just local kids with nothing to do, having fun with an urban legend, an old myth, that’s what it was. Nothing to fuss over. Just an old tale concocted by the locals to keep away the city-rich—to frighten the newcomers out of their ancestral homes; or the haunting fears and insecurities of desperate middle-class housewives and the detached nouveau riche—one of those gentrification stories he read about on AlterNet. Yeah, that’s what it was. But somebody could be in danger? He decided to stop at least and see if the paint was fresh.

The brakes squealed as the car slowed to a halt; he sat for a moment, listening to his own breath, staring into the fog. It would be difficult to maneuver backwards in this soup, on this winding hill, so he shifted the car in to park, and put the emergency brake on. He reached under the seat for his flashlight. Suddenly, his radio squawked and crackled with static. Underneath the static, as if two radio stations were talking over each other, he heard a cold voice feint and garbled say Something Wicked This Way Comes. Then it went eerily quiet. His heart thumped in his chest and climbed into his throat. He shook his head, muttering I’m just tired, I’m tired. It’s just my imagination. He looked in his rear-view mirror, up the hill, into the swirling mist. The help sign was just round the corner. Fuck it, he cried, dropping the flashlight on the seat next to him, he released the brake, and drove on. 

Twelve…a small distant light wavered in the fog. Was it a car? It grew bigger and brighter. It was no car, he thought, unless of course it had a headlight out. Just in case, he toggled his lights. The hovering light came closer as he neared the thirteenth curve, and a ragged man carrying a lantern began to manifest in his headlights, walking toward him. The man moved slowly, stopped once or twice, looked behind him, and into the woods, holding his lantern high. The man seemed to be one with the mist, ethereal and timeless. When he reached the station wagon, William again slowed to a stop, his breast swelling, and his breath coming quickly now. Something told him to be cautious. The mist and the man seemed to flow together. He was dressed in an old traveling cloak that swirled around him. He stood in the middle of the road looking into the forest. Then he turned very very slowly toward Walter and looked at him directly. Where there were supposed to be eyes there were none—only hollow holes in papery skin stretched tightly over the bony face. This was no living man. Suddenly, the spirit lunged at him, a creature between two worlds, the world of the damned, and this one, as if hinged, manipulated by invisible strings: it could be touched, the way one can touch the bending light of an old fluorescent bulb stuttering and flickering into existence. Walter screamed. Nothing happened. All was silent. 

He opened his eyes, and was alone, only the fog peeling back the trees, swirling in his headlights. His chest heaved. His heart and his mind racing. His hands trembled on the wheel. He gathered his courage, and his reason, and pried his eyes off the road, forcing himself to look into the rear-view mirror. 

In the far backseat, past the middle section, near the cargo hold, the trunk…

…the hollow-eyed spirit leered at him. The radio crackled on, regurgitating static…and a long, hollow drawling whisper traveled through the distorted squeals…I… can… see… you…


End file.
